Wrecked(13)

Haley covers Jenny’s hand with her own and squeezes. “It takes bravery to speak up. It takes super bravery to report . . .” Haley stops short of saying the word. For some reason, she feels like that would upset Jenny even more. She doesn’t know why. It’s just a gut feeling. She’s relying on her gut for all of this. Plus, Carrie’s advice.

The older girl got right to it. Once she whisked Haley away from the history building, she revealed that she was a volunteer for the sexual assault response team at the college.

“Your roommate, Jenny, was raped last weekend,” Carrie said. “My friend Gail and I are both volunteers. We’ve been helping Jenny get the support she needs. After you walked in on us this morning, she told us you didn’t know. She asked me to tell you.”

That scene in the room. The tears, the air smog--thick with tension. Haley finally got it. “Oh my god! What happened? Is she okay?”

Carrie shook her head. “I can’t discuss any of the details with you. Privacy, you know? Physically she’s fine. But mentally, not so good. She’s shaken. Classic trauma, really. Just like they described in our training sessions.”

Classic trauma. Haley had no idea what that meant.

“She’ll need lots of support,” Carrie said.

“Of course. What about her family? Do they know?”

“Yes. They’re flying in tonight. From Ohio,” Carrie added.

Haley felt a prick, the slightest twinge, of annoyance. Uh, she’s my roommate. I know where she’s from.

“She’s going to need to process. A lot,” Carrie continued. “Be prepared to listen. Sometimes at inconvenient times, if you know what I mean.”

“No. What do you mean?”

“Late at night. In the dark, in bed, when there’s nothing to distract her from the thoughts. When she keeps replaying the attack, over and over, in her mind.” Carrie’s voice was steely, the words delivered like short, swift blows. “Or maybe un-expectedly, middle of the day, while you’re doing homework together in your room? Suddenly she’ll start to cry. Maybe she won’t speak at all, but just need someone to be with her. Don’t ask questions. Just be present.”

Haley stopped walking. She faced Carrie. “You seem to know an awful lot about this.”

The older girl held Haley’s gaze for a long moment before answering.

“I’m not a survivor, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said. “Although, in a sense, we all are. Survivors of the rape culture.” She was speaking loudly. They had stopped beneath a cluster of trees, a quiet intersection of sidewalks, but students walking yards away on a parallel path shot them curious looks. Even Carrie noticed. They continued walking.

“I know you’ve been dealing with your own issues lately,” Carrie said, her tone a bit more hushed. “Jenny told us you were hurt playing soccer. But she needs you right now. I don’t get the impression she has a lot of friends.”

“She works a lot. She’s got two labs plus multivariable. It’s killer.”

“It would absolutely suck if she withdrew over this.” Carrie grimaced. “Victims do that. The trauma, plus the academic pressure, is just too much. We can’t let that happen. We have to let her know that she is not alone. Especially as the complaint process moves forward to a hearing and her stress increases.”

“Hearing?”

“She’s going to file a formal complaint with the college against her rapist,” Carrie declared. “She’s not letting him get away with this.”

“Wow.”

“She’s so brave,” Carrie continued. “This has been really hard for her, but she’s doing the right thing. Not only for herself, but for all of us. Listen.” Carrie pulled out her cell phone. “Give me your number. We should talk for real, not like this. I can get you up to speed on what to expect and how you can support Jenny.” She looked at Haley, finger poised over her phone.

They come back to her now as she sits with Jenny, Carrie’s startling eyes. Metallic brown. Coppery. She pushes the stray thought away. The invading, distracting, nonrelevant thought. Focus on Jenny. A Herculean task, given the post--concussion landscape of her bruised, barely--able--to--concentrate brain. She glances at her watch. It’s not quite time to reload the Tylenol, but the ache behind her eyes has been steadily increasing all morning. She rises from the bed and heads toward the mini--fridge.

“Want a water?” Haley asks. Jenny shakes her head. Haley pulls out a bottle for herself, then sits on her own bed. She fishes through her backpack for the gelcaps. “When are your folks getting here?”

Jenny takes a deep breath. “Tonight. After dinner.” She looks like she might start crying again.

“But that’s good, right?” Haley says gently.

“I guess.” Jenny begins playing with the tissue she holds. Twisting it tightly around her fingers. “Telling them was . . . really hard. Awful, actually.” She looks at Haley with brimming eyes. “I’ve seen my mother cry before—tearjerker movies, sad stories. But never heard her sob. Until the other night, when I called them.” Jenny’s eyes drop to her lap. She’s pretty much twisted the tissue into a tourniquet at this point, and her fingertips are bright red. “I think half the reason I waited to report it was because I dreaded that call. And tonight? It’ll be the first time I’ve seen them. Since . . .”